As I scrutinized it I was struck by a disturbing thought.
“Could it be?” I thought out loud.
“What?” said Antonello.
I reached into my tunic, hoping that the coins I had found in Carlo’s hand were still there. I found them in a pouch I had kept in the inner lining.
“What are those?”
“Evidence,” I said, tossing one coin to him. The other I held in my hand, closing my eyes to focus on the weight. The two coins, the counterfeit and the one I had found in Carlo’s room, felt exactly the same.
“This is incredible.” My brother ducked into the storeroom for a moment and reappeared with a simple scale. We weighed both of Carlo’s coins as well as the coin he had found. All were exactly the same weight and quality of engraving, as though they had all been struck at the same time. When I dropped a few of the random coins onto the scale, the balance tipped towards those every time.
“These are very special coins. How on earth did you notice this?”
“Brother, we handle a lot of cash daily. I know when something does not feel right.”
“If you don’t mind, I want to take these to Jacopo at once.”
He nodded. “Be my guest, Mercurio.”
I said farewell and left in a hurry. Jacopo would want to know about this as soon as possible. Carlo had not been murdered over a vendetta, or information, or anything of obvious value. His fate had been sealed by the counterfeit coins he’d seized from a lowly vagrant who owed him gambling debts.
15
The look on the comandatore's face was inscrutable. He stared at the coins, rattling them within his cupped hand. “These explain much. But they raise a lot more questions.”
“My brother discovered the one at our family's office. The others were on Carlo's body. There is no way to know how many more there could be.”
“Your brother is very observant. And so are you, Mercurio.” He handed me the coins. “Excellent work. I have a task for you.”
“Should I investigate the mercati for evidence of more counterfeit currency?”
Jacopo shook his head. “No. That still wouldn't tell us much we don't already know. Instead, let's take this to the real experts on such matters. I want you to go directly to the zecca.”
For a moment I thought I had misheard. I stammered, “Of course, ser.”
The zecca. I had never been inside of the mint of Florence before. It was a large, well fortified building on the northern edge of the city, unmistakable as it loomed from its perch beside the city wall. Since it served such a delicate civic function, it was also well guarded and very few who were not members of the guild ever saw its inside. It was not a place I expected to be rendering a visit.
Jacopo lit a small brazier containing shavings of wax. From one of his cupboards he produced a leaf of paper. “This should get you inside,” he said as his handwriting flourished across the page. “Show this letter to the captain of the zecca's watch, a man named Andrea. He will bring you to the master of the mint, Messere Bruni. Show him the coins.” After a quick jot of his initials Jacopo folded the note. Then he stamped it with the official seal of the Otto.
My mouth was dry. This was becoming very official and I felt hardly prepared.
“So you won't be joining me?”
He laughed and thrust the note into my hand. “That is as good as my being there beside you. Mercurio, you handle yourself well. This will not be a challenge. Bring Pietro if it helps ease your nerves.” A pat on my shoulder signaled that our meeting was concluded.
As I exited into the courtyard I felt the weight of the letter in my pocket. I was thrilled that I would be investigating the zecca now of all places. It was rare that I saw any official offices outside of our headquarters; even with the Signoria, I had only visited it a few times and had been accompanied by other officers or Bargello staff.
Pietro stood watch at the main gate.
“Capo,” he said, offering a salute.
“Pietro, I have need of your presence.”
“The zecca?” he said, a little too loudly, after I explained my meeting with Jacopo. His surprise mirrored my own moments earlier. I had forgotten that he had never been told of the coins, among other recent developments, and would need to be brought up to speed.
“I'll explain on the way. We must go at once.”
A mostly straight route that took us through a quarter of dense tenements and past several wine storehouses brought us eventually to the blocky three-story structure that housed the Florentine mint. The ground floor was obscured by a barrier that stretched around the perimeter and connected to the bulky masonry of the city wall behind it. There was a squad of guards standing at the front of the complex. Their uniforms were decorative, with velvet caps and tunics of silk brocade woven with gold thread. We looked like mere commoners before them.
“My name is Mercurio di Matteo Capolupo, investigatore for the Bargello, and I am here on official business. May I see your captain, per favore?”
The guard of least superiority excused himself. Moments later he returned, accompanied by a sober looking officer. The decadence of his armor belied his expressionless face. His gaze bore through us like arrows into the flesh of an animal.
“What is your purpose here?”
“I have come to speak with Messere Bruni. I have been sent by Comandatore Orsini of the Otto di Guardia.” The note felt empowering as I handed it to the captain. He glanced at the seal, then mulled over the note.
“This way,” he rasped with the gravel of disapproval.
He led us through the open garden and through a pair of stocky iron doors into a central vestibule. The acrid smell of smoke was discernable as we approached.
“Wait here,” he said. He nodded at a nearby guard who was eying us critically.
“Not too many visitors here,” said Pietro, trying to be discrete.
“I expect not.” We certainly felt out of place, and the impassive stares of the guards only made the feeling worse.
A moment later the captain returned, a bespectacled man in tow. He greeted us cordially. "Ser Mercurio, welcome to the mint of Firenze. I am Bruno Bruni, the mintmaster." He turned to the captain. "Andrea, you may leave us."
"Certo," he said smugly before shuffling off.
Bruni’s countenance was a stark contrast to his master of the guard. His steps were measured and purposeful, but his eyes and mouth were soft and had a paternal quality. He led us onwards into a central courtyard filled with the hustling bodies of laborers as they hauled supplies into the grand workshops that surrounded us. The shouting and creaking and pounding echoed off the stone walls. The men hardly seemed to notice.
“I’m sure a very urgent matter has brought you here,” Bruni said. “Jacopo is not a man to waste resources on pointless errands. What is it that I can help you men with today?”
“We have some coins we’d like you to take a look at. We believe these are forgeries.”
“Really?” He took the bundle eagerly and inspected the coins carefully for a moment, first one side and then the reverse. “Well. These are very good. Very good,” he repeated with emphasis.
“We were wondering if you might offer some insight into their origin.”
“Absolutely,” he said. “As a matter of fact, I’d like to give you a tour of the facility so you can better understand the production process. If you have time, that is.”
“That would be very helpful,” I said. It would be interesting to compare the scale of Bartolomeo’s workshop with the Florentine mint. These were the best metalworkers in the republic, who better to analyze these forgeries?
Bruni showed us around the main workshop, a vast studio that was filled with heat, noise, and toiling men. Each cell seemed to have a different activity taking place, each one a step in the complex process of forging what was the most widely used currency in Europe and most likely the whole world. There were weighers and scribes, smiths and strikers. There were also numerous hearths used to
refine the gold.
“This ground floor area is where the gold is processed and struck into coin. Below in the lower level is where we refine the silver. “
We walked up to one of the weighers, who was testing random samples of gold ore with a scale. After taking the measurements, he would hastily scrawl them into a journal. As soon as he saw Bruni and us, he greeted us politely. “Ser Bruni, visitors?”
“Si,” he said smoothly. “A few officers from the Otto. They found some very interesting coins.” He handed the notched coin to the weigher. “What do you make of this?”
“Hmm. It’s quite skillfully done. But the weight is wrong. Hold on one second.” He placed the coin on one of his scales, then adjusted the weights carefully. “As I thought. This is much too light. Its outer layer certainly appears to be of standard gold quality, but the inside I’m not so sure about. Let’s see here.”
The weigher removed a long, sharp instrument from his bench. He slashed the face of the coin diametrically, effectively cutting the fleur de lis in two. It reminded me of the warring factions in the streets, ready to kill each other over what amounted to a fraud that went awry.
“Yes, you see this? The metal inside is much too hard to be lead.” He scribbled down some quick calculations. He turned the coin beneath a nearby brazier and it glittered beneath the light. “This is definitely silver.”
“Silver?” I repeated.
Bruni said, “Yes. Lead is a likely metal for forging gold coins. It has a low melting point and its weight is most like that of gold. But silver is much like gold in other ways. Its weight is similar to gold even though it’s a little bit lighter than lead, but it does have a distinct resonance to it that lead does not have.”
The workman motioned for us to watch closely, then held one of the coins in his fingers. With a quick motion he flicked the coin aloft. As it twirled in the air it emitted a high pitched ring.
“That sound is the difference between a lead slug and a coin of value. All the precious metals make a similar sound.” He handed the coin back to Bruni.
“Very interesting,” I said. “But wouldn’t obtaining this much silver be expensive compared to an equal supply of lead?”
“Oh, absolutely,” Bruni said. “It would be terrifically expensive. But the copies wouldn’t be as good. This individual was looking for quality over pure quantity. These people were very professional about these forgeries.”
“But why would they go to the trouble if not to make as much profit as possible?”
“I don’t have the answer for that,” said Bruni. “I am only the expert on the coins themselves, not on those that seek to reproduce them.” He led us on through to the smiths. They were tending to a row of large hearths that poured heat from inside. The gush of air and the roar of the flames were exhilarating but incredibly loud and uncomfortable. A system of pulleys attached to broad fans fastened to the ceiling provided a slight draft for the laborers.
Behind Bruni was a team of men soaked through with sweat. They worked quickly, tending the flames and combining the molten ore with additives that allowed the impurities in the metal to separate and float to the top. This cloudy material they collected with ceramic ladles.
“I believe I know how these coins were manufactured. You see, both faces are only made up of very thin layers of gold. Those would have had to be joined together to form a flat pocket into which silver ore would be poured. Then, once that was complete, the ends were fused and then filed in order for the silver to be invisible from the surface. At this point, the forgers would have perfect replicas of gold blanks.”
“What did they do then?”
“Follow me,” he said. We walked into yet another room that housed a number of benches upon which the strikers were casting the blanks with long, cylindrical dies that were struck with large hammers. These were all huge men, and they drove the dies with a graceful finesse that belied the bulk of their instruments, the tension of the metal discs, and the force with which the two met violently.
“Paolo,” he called to one. “Give these men a look at your dies.”
The man slung his hammer and picked up the die. On the one side of the die, which he held in his hand as he struck it, was the upper face of the florin coin, an inverse fleur de lis. The other side of the die was secured in the anvil itself, and on its face was an inverted St. John the Baptist. When thrust together between the two sides of the die by the blow from the workman’s hammer, the blank coin slug would produce a perfectly manufactured gold florin.
Once the coins were struck, they were brought back to the weighers to be measured again for purity. When this was completed, Bruni explained, the scribes would make final records for all the gold ore used in production and the results of the finished batch. These figures would be audited frequently in order to ensure not only the quality of the coins but also to make sure that there was no ore or coin unaccounted for.
“Who keeps track of the dies?” Pietro asked.
Bruni said, “Everything is carefully recorded by the scribes. A note is made when a die is checked out and when it is returned. Maintaining the dies is one of the most important aspects of security here, and we take it very seriously.”
“Can we take a look at them?” I asked.
“Certainly.” We continued further back into a heavily secured storeroom. Bruni opened the lock and we stepped inside. On each of the shelves were rows upon rows of dies. Each die pair had a number, and a journal was used to keep track of each die and who used it on a daily basis. I wondered who else might have access to this room.
“Have you had any dies go missing recently?”
“No. I can attest to the fact that we have never had a die disappear from here. Everything is very carefully recorded and accounted for.” Bruni was adamant.
“Ever have anything disappear briefly, and turn up at a later time?”
“No,” Bruni scoffed. “I would have been notified at once.”
We peered into drawer after drawer, each filled neatly with pairs of dies. They all looked identical, although some were clearly more worn down than others.
“About how many coins will each of these produce until they are no longer usable?”
“Each die will strike about five thousand coins, give or take.”
I reached for the die journal. “Is it okay if I take a look?”
“Yes, of course.” The mint master was very patient, but it seemed as though he was growing tired of his role as host to us.
I cracked open the leather bound book and flipped through its pages. Each die was given its own section, with names and dates scrawled under each one in chronological order. I studied the book for a few minutes, making mental notes. It seemed that each die would last roughly three to four months under constant use before being melted down and reforged. This was a pretty general pattern, except for one die pair.
“Number forty two, can I have a look at that one?”
“Forty two? It’s over here.” Bruni went over the dies one by one until he found the die that was clearly stamped '42' on both the upper and lower halves. “Here it is.” It was fairly well kept, its faces still clean and hardly dulled like many of the older dies.
“That’s odd.”
“What’s that?” he said nervously.
“Well I’m hardly an expert in these matters, but it doesn’t seem to look as weathered as many of these others.”
“No, not at all!” insisted Bruni.
“But look at this one here, thirty six, isn’t even as old and it looks ready to be retired.” I pointed to one nearby that had been in use for merely three weeks. The top of the die was mashed into a flattened stub from repeated blows, and its raised surfaces on its face were dulled and rounded where on the newer ones they were sharper and better defined.
“Wait a minute.” He grabbed the ledger from my hand and started rifling through pages. “Oh dear,” he said. His voice was grave. “No, there must be some mistake.” He picked up the die and insp
ected it closely.
“What is it, ser Bruni?”
For a moment he was without words. “No, that’s not possible.” Fear was written clearly across his face now, beads of cold sweat collecting on his neck and brow. “This die, the one you pointed out. It wasn’t made here, it isn’t the same material. And these dates are all wrong, some of them have been scratched out and written over.” The page had scoring over the date of the entry where the ink had been scraped off, probably with the tip of a knife. A small hole gave away where the instrument had poked clean through the page, and the numbers that were scrawled in its place were from a different hand.
What happened next was pure chaos. The entire mint was shut down completely. Equipment was returned to the storeroom in preparation for a full audit. The workers were separated into groups and forced to stay put until each man could be questioned individually. Guards were brought in to watch everyone, and I saw Andrea barking orders at his men and at the workers he was detaining.
Meanwhile, Bruni was having his own version of a meltdown before our eyes. I felt for the man. There would be hell to pay.
“Is there anything we can do for you here?” I asked.
He just shook his head. “No. No, just go if you would. We’re going to have a very long night. It may take weeks but we’ll find out what happened.”
“Very well,” I said. “I don’t believe I have any more questions for you. Thank you for all your help, Ser Bruni.”
He stood still, clearly stunned, as we left the Zecca. By his stony appearance, he had not even heard a word I had said.
That evening I headed home to enjoy supper with the family. Pietro and I had spent the remainder of the afternoon going over what we’d seen at the zecca. How long that counterfeit die had gone unnoticed was anybody’s guess, though if the material was as poor as it seemed then it shouldn’t have been long at all. I wondered if the interrogations of the workers would yield useful information, or if the thief had already disappeared long ago.
I entered my family home and was greeted with the usual frenzy of activity. There was barely a moment after I had removed my cloak that I heard a light knocking at the door behind us.
Guardia: A Novel of Renaissance Italy Page 15